


With Nothing But A Blindfold

by bri_notthecheese



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s03e22 Heavydirtysoul, First Kiss, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Isolation for Plot reasons, M/M, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bri_notthecheese/pseuds/bri_notthecheese
Summary: Edward frowns. “What are you proposing?”“A truce—not unlike the one we’ve made before. Killing each other inside my safe house hardly seems fitting and I like to think we’re not so disagreeable that we can’t have some patience. No murder on the premises.”-Due to the overwhelming number of Tetch virus victims roaming the streets and the added inconvenience of police blockades, Oswald can't make it to the pier to enact his perfect revenge on Ed. Instead, he holes them both up in one of his safe houses so they can ride out the chaos together.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 27
Kudos: 154





	With Nothing But A Blindfold

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a joke playing on the 'oh my God they were quarantined' meme but then @MidnightandDiamonds gave me a nygmobs prompt and I got serious. @Annoying_F__k and @Gineru encouraged it. the end.
> 
> title is taken from the song "How it Feels to be Lost" by Sleeping with Sirens (@Gineru introduced it to me as Ed's anthem for 3x15)

Ed wakes with a start. He shifts from where he’s uncomfortably laying on the floor and pain immediately blooms at the back of his head. Groaning, he reaches with one hand to check for any bleeding. None. A large bump that’ll be there for a few days, but the skin doesn’t appear to be broken. Small blessings.

“He’s awake. I was getting lonely.”

A familiar voice that sounds far cheerier than Ed feels snaps him from his injury assessment. He finds Oswald perching self-righteously on the couch, gleeful smile in place. Ed recognizes the interior—one of Oswald’s safe houses. He’d been to this one before briefly. Forcing back any pain and discomfort, he tries to sit up and belatedly notices his other hand is cuffed to the radiator next to him. Wonderful.

“Why are we here?”

“A couple of police blockades are preventing anyone from leaving the city, and hoards of people with the Tetch virus are stampeding through the streets. I thought it best to hunker down for a bit.”

“With me?” Keeping him here doesn't make any sense, but Ed figures if he keeps Oswald talking long enough, he can ignore the pounding in his head for a moment and think of a plan.

“Well, seeing as I can’t go through with my initial plans for you, Edward, I’ve been stuck improvising. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

Oswald shrugs, the impish grin still plastered on his face.

Ed sits up completely and subtly brings his cuffed hand behind his back. If he could just grab something he could use as a lock-pick… “I imagine you’re planning on dragging this out?”

“There are so few moments of pure joy in one’s life, I feel compelled to savor this one.”

Ed barely represses the urge to roll his eyes. “You mean gloat?”

“Yes, I do,” Oswald giggles.

“It was always one of your least attractive qualities, Oswald.” Ed’s pride is sore, but he refuses to let Oswald enjoy this. Any jab he can make—especially if it involves mocking Oswald’s so-called _love_ for him and adding a reminder why _they_ would never happen—is one he will take. He watches the grin fall from Oswald’s face, triumphant in his words.

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“To know that you are not as smart as you think you are,” Oswald starts and Ed’s rage churns low in his belly. But no—focus. Oswald can’t talk once he’s dead. And letting his anger consume him will only lead to mistakes. His free hand searches behind him for anything that could potentially pick the cuff’s lock. “All that planning to drive me crazy, strip me of everything I had, revealing yourself with a ‘ta-da,’ and shooting me by the river.”

“That plan was perfect, and you know it.” Ed can’t help it, even now. He has to bait Oswald into admitting that his scheming had been cunning. Admirable, even. Worthy of the villainous name he’s deemed himself.

“You failed.” Of course Oswald couldn’t forgo his own ego and admit that. “I’m still alive, and you are handcuffed to a radiator. And don’t think I’ve forgotten your parlor tricks in lock picking. Hiding your hand behind your back while you try to look for something isn’t your most subtle move, Ed.”

Ed freezes. Oswald’s eyebrows are raised; pleased at how well he knows Ed. Ed hates it. He used to feel a bubble of pleasure in his chest any time Oswald was able to predict something he’d do, something he’d need. It was the first time he was known by anyone in such a way. The first time anyone had _wanted_ to know him like that.

The only feeling he gets now is nausea in the pit of his stomach. “So you’re just going to keep me here? Like a…pet?”

Oswald laughs. “That depends entirely on you. I could have easily killed you while you were unconscious, but you deserve something a little grander for your troubles, Edward. An example to be made of, I should think. However, if you’d rather take your chances and use your _brilliant_ wits to overtake me and enact your poetic revenge, well. Either way we both have to wait until the chaos has ceased outside.”

Edward frowns. “What are you proposing?”

“A truce—not unlike the one we’ve made before. Killing each other inside my safe house hardly seems fitting and I like to think we’re not so disagreeable that we can’t have some patience. No murder on the premises.”

“And no sabotage.” Ed echoes back their other rules. “Are we leaving in the six-hour window post-isolation?”

“If it would make you feel better,” Oswald agrees, however insincerely.

Ed offers his hand. He’s not above breaking this agreement if the opportunity strikes, but he also knows Oswald would have taken every precaution to keep himself safe while containing Edward before even suggesting this truce. He’ll have to be careful. Oswald’s emotional nature has always been his downfall and Ed figures if he can do it once, he’ll do it again. He’ll simply have to wait until his guard is down.

Oswald grasps his hand. While Oswald’s hand itself is warm, coldness is all Ed feels from his best friend. Former, he supposes, since they are out for each other’s necks. Even if _technically_ the title still fits since nouns don’t have tenses. Oswald’s blue eyes have always been cool, but there’s no familiarity in them anymore. There hadn’t been any for him back when they were trapped by the Court. Not since—

Ed supposes his eyes don’t hold any either. And they shouldn’t. Not after all Oswald’s done. A betrayal shouldn’t go unpunished.

“Deal.”

They linger. Ed supposes Oswald’s searching for sincerity. Looking for some assurance that Ed won’t immediately attack once he’s released. It’s an option, but there are too many variables when it involves Oswald and close-ranged combat. He’d be expecting it so Ed could anticipate a quick knife wound immediately following one wrong move.

“Are you going to let go?” Ed mocks. Their hands are still together after all.

He expected Oswald to toss his hand away. Huff and pitch some kind of fit while turning a brilliant shade of red in his embarrassment.

Instead, Oswald squeezes his hand harder. He refuses to release it and Ed can feel his bones shift under Oswald’s painful grip. The kingpin moves closer and Ed has to swallow his fear down to maintain eye contact. For so long, Ed had been on the sidelines as Oswald directed gazes full of murder on their enemies, sometimes receiving the honor of helping him pick them apart. How unnerving to be on the receiving end of it. It’s easier to see here with the natural daylight filtering into the house. It was colder and darker in prison together, but it’d somehow made it less tangible. That Oswald’s hate could be directed back at him just as strongly.

It isn’t fair.

“Don’t test me, Edward. Do not mistake this for anything else. I don’t trust you and one wrong move will send you to your grave.”

Ed wasn’t supposed to feel small again. He wasn’t supposed to feel insignificant. At Oswald’s side—

With Oswald towering over him, that option doesn't seem viable anymore. Not that he’d take that option. He doesn’t _need_ Oswald to be a villain. The Riddler doesn’t need anyone. He breaks out in a full grin, staring up at the man. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Oswald clearly doesn't believe him but releases his hand. He digs the key out from his pocket and motions for Ed to move his other hand out from behind his back. Oswald’s rough when he unlocks the cuff but Ed decides that he won’t give him the satisfaction of making a noise. He’ll get his turn. All he has to do is bide his time.

“There’s food in the kitchen if you want any.”

He leaves before Ed can answer. His limp is more pronounced; his leg is most likely tired and in more pain that usual. Ed supposes after running across the warehouse and dragging him…how _did_ Oswald get him here? He must have had transport. It’s several blocks from the warehouse to their location. But even with a car, that’s an awful lot of physical exertion on an injury that simply aches from everyday usage.

A stupid move on Oswald’s part. Ed’s not worth it. Oswald’s only weakening himself against Ed when the time comes, and Edward won’t pity a pointless move when the reasoning behind it isn’t sound.

Oswald closes the door to the only bedroom in the safe house. Presumably. Clearly the other house he attempted to kill Oswald in was much more than it seemed, so it wasn’t unlikely that this one boasted the same modifications. A hollow feeling settles in Ed’s chest as he hears a lock click into place. Without Oswald here, and no other audience members to perform for, Ed’s anger settles down to barely a simmer. He’d been spoiling for a fight but Oswald ruined that too by leaving.

He’s not hungry. He doesn’t feel much of anything. Since Oswald’s miraculous resurrection (again), enacting his revenge properly and finishing what he started has consumed him. His every move, his every thought. How could he best eliminate the Penguin once and for all?

But now Oswald’s here and he isn’t even fighting back. What happened to those impassioned words back at the docks? Even the bravado he had only minutes before? And now he’s offering Ed food?

It must be a trap. It’s the only thing that would make sense. Ed’s plans already consisted of luring Oswald into some false sense of security; it must be Oswald’s to do the same. If he assumes that Ed will assume he still has feelings for him, then Ed will grow lax in watching his back. Not that Ed ever believed in those feelings anyway.

He peruses the kitchen, taking stock of what’s available. The lids on those canned fruits would do nicely as a makeshift blade. They couldn’t stab, but they would slit a throat just fine. Ed catalogues it and keeps going. Oswald has already removed the knives and any other utensil that could potentially be dangerous.

Ed’s fury ignites. As if he couldn’t put together a contraption that would make a fork or spoon just as deadly as a butcher’s knife. He’s even left him time alone to do it! Oswald’s always underestimated him, and for that, he will pay. The Riddler isn’t some second-rate killer. He can and _will_ kill just as brutally as the Penguin, but he’ll do it while having a bit more style and fun than your boring old pocket blade.

“Oswald,” he growls the name under his breath. He slams the drawer shut and stalks over to the couch. It’s relatively comfortable. Oswald wouldn’t settle for less, even at a place he may never occupy. He scans the rest of the room. At least there are shelves of books to busy himself with while they wait out…whatever is happening outside. His leg angrily bounces, as he has no outlet for any of his frustrations. He considers for a moment yelling through the door, but he knows how foolish that would appear and Oswald would mock him for it. Though Oswald’s tantrums are certainly worse.

He needs a plan.

Oswald, at first glance, has hidden or discarded any items that could be used as a simple weapon. Ed could build something to utilize another harmless item, but the risk of discovery before its completion could spell the end of him.

Could Oswald really do it? It seems possible now. Even back at his apartment on Grundy, Ed had felt _something_ when Oswald had pulled the knife on him but he doesn’t recall fearing that Oswald would go through with it.

Oswald probably didn’t believe Edward would shoot him either.

He’d played his part well—so well in fact, that Oswald hadn’t believed he would pull the trigger right up until the end. Ed had watched as the disbelief and shock swim across his face, mixed with something far sadder underneath. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant memory. His next time at the docks sits quieter in his mind.

Getting Oswald to trust him in any capacity seems too far-fetched, so any brainstormed idea involving that is scrapped.

Leaving Ed with no ideas at the moment. That’s okay. His brain is, after all, still recovering from being hit with whatever tool Oswald used to knock him out. Some light reading and a power nap might do the trick. Then back to the drawing board. Oswald _will_ say his name—he _will_ acknowledge him and that he was able to best the Penguin not once, but twice now. And then he will finally put an end to that miserable excuse of a friend.

Ed hates that he jumps when Oswald’s door opens later that evening. He would have preferred to readjust before Oswald saw him lounging on the couch—getting _comfortable_ in the den of the enemy—but he’d appeared too fast and if Ed hadn’t been so entranced by his book, he might have heard the lock sooner. He focuses back on his book, determined to ignore Oswald for the duration of time he’s out here.

Oswald makes his way to the kitchen and rummages through the cabinets. Ed’s eyes don’t leave the page. He hears a pot being placed on the stove, a can being opened. Soup, or something of the sort. That question answered, Ed does intend to bring his focus back to his reading. Oswald standing there is distracting, but it’s nothing he can’t block out.

“Bit morbid, isn’t it?”

Unless he decides to talk to him. Ed huffs and closes the book as loudly as one could close a book. His superior memory means he’s never needed a bookmark to remember his place. “What?”

“It’s just so typical that out of all of the selections, you’ve chosen to read Edgar Allen Poe.”

Ed frowns. “My options were quite limited. And seeing as you have failed to have books containing any useful information, I couldn’t afford to be too picky. Not everyone enjoys ridiculous romance pieces or murder mysteries a simpleton could solve.”

“Well, Edward, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time I outmaneuver you in the hopes that I can make your stay as comfortable as possible.”

“You’re so sure of yourself, Oswald.” He assesses Oswald from head to toe, not bothering to hide it. “While you may rise to power on occasion, how many times have you already been unseated? How many times have you failed because of your own incompetence?”

Oswald laughs. “I don’t think you’re in any position to lecture me. Best to simply hold your tongue.”

“Why? Can’t handle your flaws being spelled out to you? Oh, but that’s right. You’d prefer all of your minions to simple bow down and feed your ego.”

“You’re certainly one to talk ego, _Riddler_.” Ed ignores the spike of excitement in his stomach at Oswald using his name. Even if it was said mockingly. There will be opportunity enough to get it right before they’re done. And Oswald keeps running his mouth. “Priding yourself, or so I thought, at being my _only_ second in command. Just to kill the hand that feeds you, along with every other intellectual in the city because you couldn’t stand the competition.”

Ed ignores the accusation because, of course, Oswald refuses to comprehend any of the reasoning behind his actions. “I outgrew you. Metamorphosized into something greater. Just as you had from Fish Mooney.”

Oswald pulls a knife so fast Ed barely notes which pocket he’d drawn it from. “Do _not_ speak of her.”

Ed attributes shock as the reason he holds his hands up in quiet surrender. He hadn’t anticipated such an aggressive reaction from Oswald—not on account of Fish Mooney, at least. Plus, he doesn’t want to provoke Oswald to the point of _actually_ killing him. But now he knows where Oswald will reach first.

“Fine.”

In chess, sacrifices are made to win the long game. Ed can concede this round.

He returns to his book. Oswald stands brandishing the knife a few moments more before he tucks it away and stares intently at his soup. The air is ripe with unreleased tension; both of their emotions bubbling just underneath the surface but neither are willing to cross the line into spilling blood. Not yet, at least.

Ed wonders what Oswald supposedly has in store for him. What could be worth keeping him here? Oswald was never one for theatrics, at least in regards to murder. His kills didn’t have meaning. Sure, they could be a work of art in moments like with Mr. Leonard, but why is Ed different? Oswald’s been betrayed many times; he isn’t special.

He probably doesn't have a plan. He mentioned an army of monsters but Ed is beginning to believe that that may have been a lie. Perhaps he has to wait for Fish? Perhaps she can’t get through the rampage of Tetch virus victims and instructed him to lay low? Was she herself infected with the virus and that’s why Oswald became so irate? He needs a cure to be found before they could move forward?

If that was the case, the more the merrier. Ed welcomes the chance to eliminate Fish as well after her insult to him at the greenhouse. Taking what was rightfully _his_ and dismissing him entirely. It’s not difficult to see why Oswald’s attitude as a crime lord matured as it did. He’d show them both. He’d show them that he was not someone to be brushed aside.

Oswald’s finishes up in the kitchen and begins his hobble back to the bedroom. Ed waits until he is past the couch to speak.

“It’s astonishing how easily the memory of your actions eludes you. You’d think after being shot one would learn that his actions do, in fact, have consequences.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Oswald straighten. Preparing for another battle. But then he promptly turns and shuts the door. He conceded, too. Perhaps in lieu of eating? Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

The point is that they’re one for one.

Oswald shows that he has no remorse for his betrayal. So Ed will be free, just as he was the last time, to take his revenge by any means necessary.

“Edward.”

Ed blinks open his eyes at the whispered call. He can’t see anything. It isn’t dark, but ridiculously thick fog surrounds him. At least he stands on solid ground. Concrete by the looks of it.

“Edward.”

He whips around, unable to identify where the voice was calling from. “Show yourself!”

“Are you sure you want that?”

Ed’s heart skips a beat, a sudden fear clawing inside his chest. “Yes.”

A water droplet falls onto his lens and obscures part of his vision. Another lands on his cheekbone, following an invisible tearstain. More raindrops fall and they slowly wash away the fog, bit by bit. Ed’s stomach bottoms out. A ship’s horn sounds and a lone seagull squawks as it’s caught up in the storm.

He’s on the pier. Again.

“You think you’d get tired of this place.”

A drenched Oswald stands beside him.

“Why are you here?” Ed growls.

“I was hoping you could answer that same question.” Oswald smiles and limps forward, unfazed by Ed’s attitude. “It seems you might have some unfinished business.”

“Obviously.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

It feels like a slap in the face. “I beg your pardon?”

Oswald turns to him, teeth bared and smiling. “How do you feel about me being alive?”

Ed sputters. “I’m obvio—I, well, it’s inconvenient. Makes you wonder what has to be done to keep you down. What a ridiculous question.”

“Is it?” Oswald’s closer now. His eyes challenging Ed’s.

Ed doesn’t back down. “Yes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be seeing a lot more of me. If you have to kill me again.”

“No!” Ed barks, jabbing a finger into Oswald’s chest. “No. I won’t. Because I don’t need you. I’ve already proven that once. I’ve grieved. I’ll kill you and be done with it. Be done with you.”

“Edward,” he admonishes. “I know everything you know. And you haven’t faced the truth yet. But if you insist…”

A prompt gunshot echoes across the open water. Before Ed can comprehend the repeating cycle of events, blood spills from Oswald’s gut and Ed is tossing away the gun he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“No…wait!”

Ed stumbles forward on instinct, reaching for Oswald.

Penguin smiles. Water gushes out from behind his teeth and Ed panics, his hands clutching the fabric of Oswald’s shirt.

“Why?” Ed cries out. The water gets higher and higher, threatening to suffocate, and Ed already can’t breath. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

Oswald tries to speak over the waterfall pouring from his mouth but Ed only receives a gurgle in reply.

It’s too much and Ed shoves him away, remembering too late how close they were to the edge. Oswald goes over, but it’s Ed who suddenly submerges into the icy waters of Gotham’s river. He’s drowning and it’s too dark. Too dark and his abdomen hurts, his chest…

Water fills his lungs and he reaches up towards the surface.

Light blinds him and he gasps for air.

A few moments and he realizes he’s back in the safe house, the morning light already filtering through the windows. He can breathe and isn’t drowning.

He can breathe.

The blanket is twisted around his legs and it takes a few moments to untangle himself. His breath still ragged, he reaches towards his eyes and rubs the last vestiges of the nightmare away. Immediately, he heads for the sink to grab a glass for water. As Ed fills it at the sink, his eyes catch on the coffee maker. Once upon a time, it would have been instinct to start it. The maker is even of the same brand as the one back at the mansion. He quickly retreats back to the safety of the couch before he thinks on it any longer.

Well that certainly had been something.

His previous hallucinations of Oswald had been easy to understand. A manifestation of his grief perpetuated by unhealthy coping methods. A bit extreme, perhaps, but Ed had never suffered such overwhelming emotions before and had no guide to help him get through it. Plus, he had needed to hold on to Oswald for a little longer. Two birds with one stone.

But this version of him…Ed doesn’t like that he’s stuck inside his head. He should be gone, just like the rest of his grief and hurt and trust and friendship and l—

That part of him died with Oswald. It died, and Oswald’s survival does _not_ mean it has resurrected once again. It’ll stay cut out and lie at the bottom of the river where it belongs. If he wants to be who he was meant to be, he’ll have to move forward. It’s already dead, so he can’t kill it again. He won’t need the pills again, and he _won’t_ need Oswald.

“Edward.”

Ed jumps, searching wildly for the source of the voice.

Oswald’s standing near the armrest to his left with an odd look on his face. Ed belatedly realizes he must have dozed off after he got his water. Water that has thankfully remained upright despite Ed’s startle. He turns to glare back at Oswald, embarrassed that he caught him sleeping.

“Yes?”

“There’s breakfast. You should eat.”

“Pass.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t eat yesterday. I’d rather not have you lamely die of starvation.”

“If you adequately hydrate, the effects of starvation won’t actually kill you for at least a month, most likely longer. Though the research on that particular topic is few and far in between for obvious reasons.” Ed rambles in his petulance. He raises his eyebrows. “Either way, I’m not going to starve.”

He gets a scoff and an exasperated eye roll in return. Oswald sits at the table and Ed’s able to glance around at what’s being offered. A loaf of bread, frozen; presumably it’s been pulled from a freezer somewhere, and then there’s a jar of jam next to it. Toast with jam. Simple, yet hearty.

Ed’s stomach betrays him. Thankfully, the growling isn’t loud enough for Oswald to hear, but it serves as a reminder to Ed that he has to think about this logically. If he wants to take Oswald out, he has to be functioning and optimally at his best. Breakfast certainly would work towards that goal. It wouldn’t be submitting because it’s more practical to eat now while everything is already out. Plus, he can watch Oswald more closely from over there. This could all be part of his larger ploy to get Ed to let his guard down.

After a few more minutes—he wouldn’t want to seem _too_ eager—Ed stands and throws his green suit jacket back on and tightens his tie before joining Oswald. He plucks up two slices of bread and places them in the toaster. Nonchalant.

God, but it’s quiet.

The scrape of Oswald’s knife against his toast sets Ed’s teeth on edge. He briefly considers commenting on it but he’s certain all that would do is start a shouting match that he’s in no mood for after his less than stellar sleep. The awkward tension is almost nauseating. Ed strains to hear what else might be going on outside in the city, but the only thing he hears over the incredibly strained silence is the faint hum of the air conditioner.

Ed starts when his toast pops up. Oswald doesn't try to hide his snort. For a moment, Ed envisions bringing the glass plate down onto Oswald’s head. It wouldn’t kill him. Though, his reaction might just kill Ed in the aftermath. Though he could always prepare for that. Ed knows the location of at least one of Oswald’s knives now, and if he tackles him quickly, Oswald would have no time to stop him. If he can’t obtain the switchblade, the butter knife is an option. Or the broken glass from the plate. It’d certainly be messy.

Ed’s always hated leaving messes. His stomach churns at the thought of scrubbing Oswald’s blood from in between the tiles on the kitchen floor. And then the body…

“Are you just going to stand there all day?”

“Are you capable of shutting your mouth?”

Oswald raises an eyebrow, his lips pursed as if to say ‘that’s what you’re going with?’ Ed grabs the toast with more force than necessary and falters when one nearly slides off his plate from how roughly he tossed it on. He sits in the chair across from Oswald and reaches for the knife that’s no longer there.

Oswald’s holding it.

Ed huffs. “Seriously?”

“Can you be trusted with it?”

Ed isn’t reducing himself to answering a question posed as if he were a child. He pointedly holds his hand out and locks eyes with Oswald. Determined to win this battle of wills. Oswald doesn't back down and for a moment, Ed truly wonders if he’s going to actually get to eat the breakfast Oswald pushed him to have.

Finally, Oswald sighs and Ed allows himself a small, private moment of victory as Oswald flips the knife and hands it to Ed handle-first. But he places it so _gently_ that Ed can’t help his stutter of breath at how intimate this suddenly feels. He’s teleported back half a year to the Van Dahl mansion, the early autumn sun casting the dining room in its warm golden glow. The strong aroma of coffee tangoing with the scents of whatever else Olga had prepared. Eggs, bacon, French toast, freshly baked pastries—sometimes all of the above on particularly hungry mornings. Oswald, without his makeup, snuggly wrapped up in his brocade robe at the head of the table, Ed by his side. He had worn that robe once when he promised…

Ed takes the knife. He briefly shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the uncomfortable memories piling up within him. Unfortunately, his plate does not help in quashing the onslaught of emotions. While breakfast at the mansion was exquisite, the humbleness of their current lodgings in addition to the food on his plate reminds him too much of their breakfasts at the apartment on Grundy. On one of the first mornings after Oswald had begun to eat again, he’d mentioned how toast with jam had always been special between him and his mother. How it’d signify a particularly good tip his mother had received and she’d buy a jar or two in celebration.

Touched at how candid his new friend had been, Ed couldn’t help but relay a small detail from his childhood that mirrored the sentiment. He left out the part where his mother would often tattle on the two of them to his father later, and how the bruises from those blows always seemed to take longer to disappear.

So while Ed loved cooking for the two of them and drank in the praises of his skill from the Penguin’s mouth, some days he’d simply pull out the bread and they’d share in the simple meal. Like Chinese takeout, spicy mustard, and ginger tea with honey, toast and jam had become one of _theirs_.

It’s wrong to share this meal together like this.

Ed swallows the lump in his throat. Or tries to. He’ll resort to pushing it down with the rest of his meal once he finally spreads the sweetness over his toast.

Ed finds that he wants to say something, but no words come to mind. He’s not even sure he could get any out at this point. That lump is quite insistent.

And maybe they don’t deserve words anyway.

Maybe this is the price they must pay for the betrayals that shattered a trust so tenderly and dearly held. Maybe this is Hell. No clichés of fire and brimstone and agony on the physical level. Maybe it’s simply sharing a space, a meal, with someone who once held your heart before performing the conscious task of chucking it on the floor.

Because that is _exactly_ what Oswald did.

He started this. Ed can’t let himself forget that.

With new resolve, he finishes preparing the toast and determinately ignores the silence as he eats. Oswald keeps his eyes on his plate. Perhaps Oswald’s realized the parallels in their situation as well. Good. He can think on it and sit knowing it’s his fault. Not that he seems to even recognize that.

No other word is spoken the rest of the time and Oswald retires to his room promptly.

So far, the butter knife and the glass plates are the only weapons Ed could easily use. After he does the dishes—what else is he supposed to do?—he begins another thorough search of the establishment. The kitchen’s search yields no more success than his first attempt. The rest of the living area, full of bookshelves and shelves with other antiquities bears no fruit either, unless you wanted to use one of the items as a bludgeon. Which isn’t completely out of the question, but that brings back around the topic of Oswald’s blood everywhere.

Spare razorblades along with the one in the actual razor have been removed from the bathroom. Ed’s lucky it’s almost impossible for him to grow a beard. He appreciates the handful of spare toothbrushes though. They won’t make great weapons, but at least his teeth are clean. By the time Ed processes he’s been counting cotton balls, he knows he’s bored.

He could read. Edgar Allen Poe isn’t a terrible choice by far, but he’s already read most of the works contained in that book. Would it have killed Oswald to store something with a little more knowledge? An encyclopedia is never a bad thing to have when you might be trapped somewhere indefinitely. Even a survival kit might be helpful, though Ed knows those like the back of his hand. He’d been in scouts for less than a year. His father thought it’d toughen him up. And at first, he’d done well. He’d passed all the theoretical tests but was virtually useless when it came to practical application. He knew how to complete the assessments of course, but couldn’t be bothered even trying to bond with the other brutish boys as they set up their campsite because he’d discovered a rabbit carcass that he wanted to dissect instead.

He’d been pulled from scouts after that. His father’s anger had been a thing to behold.

Ed plops back onto the couch. His leg bounces as he ponders the next course of action. It’s barely past noon. He supposes he could nap and try to catch up on sleep. The last time he slept in was probably when he had the flu two winters ago. He’d been out of work most of the week, absent to the point where Captain Essen had actually called to check in on him. He’d been touched by the sentiment.

Ed migrates back over to the bookshelves. There are a few shelves off to the side that contain several board games and Ed notes the dusty chessboard that sits underneath.

He could play alone.

Ed glances back to the closed door.

It’s never been a problem before. Sometimes the other Ed will join in and it doesn’t feel as pathetic or lonely.

He could really go for some mental stimulation, though.

And Oswald is one of the only people that’s ever been able to beat him with relative consistency. There can’t be much to do in that room of his. Ed bets he’s just as bored. He’d really be doing him a favor.

Mind made up, Ed pulls out the set. The cloud of dust is bigger than Ed anticipated and he coughs while brushing the old thing off. It still looks too dusty when he places it on the kitchen table so he meticulously sets to wiping the board and each individual piece clean one by one with a wet rag until the set looks brand new. Well, mostly mint condition.

Setting the board takes time but Ed’s already dreading asking Oswald to play. He’s loath to see that smug smile again. The sharp jolt he gets from it is no longer a pleasant one.

But he can’t procrastinate forever.

He knocks on the door, sharp and unapologetic. “Oswald.”

He receives no answer.

Ed blows air through his nose, his frown deepening. “Oswald, open the door.”

Two more seconds reveal the man himself, but Ed doesn’t give him the chance to speak before announcing, “I set up chess,” and returning to the table.

Ed is beyond pleased—internally—when Oswald makes his way over, clear confusion written on his face.

“What is this?”

“A chessboard. Obviously.”

Oswald shoots him a look hinting that his patience is running low at best. “Why?”

“Why not?” Ed is surprised to find he wouldn’t mind one of Oswald’s tantrums. It would certainly be preferable to the dull monotony of his day thus far.

“Ed, if you don’t explain what kind of game this is, I’m going back to my room.”

“I assumed you’d be bored too.”

Ed doesn’t look at him when he says it. He’s not going to beg. The cards—or pieces in this case—are on the table and Oswald can interpret them as he may.

Fortunately, Ed doesn’t have to wait long as Oswald slides into the seat and moves a pawn despite the white set being in front of Ed. Ed grins. Typical Oswald, making a move when it wasn’t even his turn, but this is what chess with Oswald has always been like. He’s unpredictable in his strategy and that makes him a worthy opponent. Ed pulls ahead much of the time with his surefire strategies that are tried and true, but Oswald has pulled the rug out from under him at the end of their games more than a few times. Their ratio is about 60:40 with Ed winning slightly more games. Better odds than anyone else he’s faced.

Ed takes his turn and he thinks he catches the ghost of a smile on Oswald’s face. He belatedly realizes he probably should have tried to hide his grin a bit better, but Ed isn’t positive Oswald even noticed.

They both make a few more moves before it hits Ed.

This is the first occurrence in months where they’ve both willingly spent time together like this. Eating is a necessity and everything after Isabella’s death had been performative on Ed’s part, so he can’t quite pinpoint the last time they simply…hung out. It had been nice. Ed had never had that before. With anyone. And somehow with Oswald, it had felt effortless. Whether it was playing the piano and singing together on the nights Ed got home early from work or the two of them retiring in the lounge after a long day at City Hall, gossiping like schoolgirls about an error one of the staff made or the buffoons working at the GCPD.

“Do you remember that one time wh—” Ed slips up. He’d been so lost in his reminiscing that he forgot this was temporary. They still hate each other.

Oswald’s crestfallen face debates that fact. But Ed supposes he is the prime example that sadness and hate can operate concurrently. He takes his turn and searches for a safer topic at hand so they can avoid the terrible silence that plagued them this morning.

“How long do you suppose we’ll be stuck in here? Have there been any updates from your contacts?”

“It’s uncertain at the moment.” Oswald moves a bishop. “Victims of the Tetch virus are still roaming the southern districts in hordes. Violent as ever.”

“Any word on an antidote?”

Oswald pauses. He knows something. “No.”

“That’s not surprising. There’s not much Jimbo can do in the way of chemistry, especially now that he’s infected. Though I suppose if Foxy is there…” Ed trails off, his hand hovering over one of his pawns as he calculates the odds in which Foxy could successfully produce a working cure. “I’d love to get my hands on it. Find out what exactly is it about her blood that causes such a reaction, such a _change_ in those it affects. If it’s simply targeting the parts of the brain that trigger aggression, but then that’d speak nothing of the clear biological mutations happening in regards to their muscle—”

“—I, for one, would be perfectly content to never deal with it again.”

Ed snaps his mouth shut.

Right. Oswald had almost been one of them. That night, when he had come home…he hadn’t even told him. Ed remembers the ache in his chest when he had to find out the next morning from the paper’s headline. Oswald had brushed him off, saying that he knew Ed had been busy and didn’t want to bother him.

That had hurt, too.

Ed does recall Isabella being over at the time, but he didn’t believe he’d ever given off the impression that Oswald was bothering him when he talked to him. Ed knows that feeling all too well, and he’d hate it if Oswald had felt that. Especially because it wasn’t true. Ed loved when Oswald confided in him.

In hindsight, Ed sees that it was probably Oswald being selfish and pitying himself, but something still niggles at the back of his mind about how raw it had all felt.

Oswald speaks as one of his knights takes Ed’s pawn. “We did have the antidote before you attempted to trade Tetch for me. However, Jim saw to it that they met their fate with Gotham’s concrete.”

“And that’s how Jim caught you?”

Oswald frowns. “Yes?”

“I assumed Fish would have prevented that from happening.”

“Ah, no. Jim killed her.”

The casual way in which Oswald spoke those three words causes Ed to nearly knock some of the pieces over when their meaning sinks in. Oswald pulling his knife yesterday at the mere mention of her makes a lot more sense now.

Oswald’s feelings on the woman have always been…complex, to say the least. There was a healthy amount of respect there, and certainly a level of fear. Despite Ed’s ire at her annoyingly superior dramatics at the greenhouse, he could secretly admit that a miniscule part of him had been afraid. Butch was right. Fish Mooney could make quite the entrance.

And Fish had been like a secondary mother to Oswald—a surrogate, for the criminal underworld. He’d betrayed her and she had maimed him and he did kill her the first time, but at the end of the day, Oswald was a sentimentalist and her death will affect him.

“I’m sorry,” Ed offers.

“No, you’re not.”

Ed clenches his jaw. Oswald’s right. He isn’t sorry that a woman he never knew died and that it’s one less person standing in his way. However, he _is_ sorry that Oswald’s grief still affects him to the point where he’s offering pointless apologies to soothe the wound. An unfortunate discovery on his part, really.

Ed has no further words to offer so he just moves one of his rooks to check Oswald’s king. Oswald adjusts his pieces but Ed can already see it on Oswald’s face that he knows, and in three more turns, Ed checkmates him.

Neither says a word as they each reset their pieces and start again.

The game occupies them the rest for of the afternoon. Chatter is limited. They do end up pulling out a container of almonds in lieu of a late lunch and Ed hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until he finishes his first cup.

After another victory goes to Ed, Oswald announces, “Well, I’ve had enough of losing for the day.”

Ed stiffens at the same time Oswald does. Oswald was used to winning a few matches to Ed’s half-dozen and he was generally the first to good-naturedly call it back when they used to play. Unfortunately, he’d do it in a way that was not dissimilar enough to the way he said it just now.

Ed is out of his chair first. He holds his tongue from saying something ridiculous like ‘good game’ or ‘thanks for playing with me.’

Oswald moves just as fast.

But his foot catches on the leg of the table and it throws his momentum forward. Ed barely has time to think before he’s gripping Oswald’s forearm and elbow and helping him steady himself.

Oswald yanks his arm away as if he’d been burned. “I’m fine! Let go!”

Ed gapes. Indignation builds in his veins as he waits for some semblance of gratitude that he knows Oswald won’t give. “Uhm? Hello? I could’ve just let you fall!”

“I don’t see why you didn’t.” Oswald avoids his gaze as he fixes himself, smoothing out his clothes while his face flushes. Whether it’s in fury or embarrassment, Ed isn’t sure.

“Well you didn’t really give me much of a choice in the matter.” Though Ed supposes he could’ve just tossed him off. He really should have.

“Of course. You couldn’t _possibly_ be to blame.”

Ed’s eyes bug out. “For catching you before you could get hurt?!”

“Oh please, as if you truly paid mind to my well-being. You do still plan to kill me after all, don’t you, _Riddler_?” Oswald spits the name like venom.

Ed has no answer. He stands there and stares as Oswald limps back to his room. The door slams closed and Ed remains.

Several minutes go by and Ed doesn’t move. He can’t seem to make sense of anything. Too much noise swirls in his brain; static that can’t be tuned to any particular frequency so he snatches bits and pieces of garbled words as he tries to fix the antenna. Something itches in the back of his mind—a riddle he can’t solve, let alone reach.

Oswald had called him by his name. That was something.

Sort of.

Ed finds he received no satisfaction from hearing it. Not like that.

Oswald also still believes Ed’s going to kill him.

Which he is. Of course.

Maybe.

_No!_

He _has_ to.

But the static is too loud so he can’t remember the exact reasons why at that moment.

Ed numbly packs away the pieces and shelves the chessboard. They’d been having a relatively nice afternoon, too.

Ed lies on the couch and watches the walls change color as the sun sets.

Oswald doesn’t come back out for dinner, and Ed isn’t hungry.

Long after the light has left the safe house and the moon provides a faint glow does Ed succumb to sleep.

Ed wakes, but keeps his eyes closed. Something’s different. There’s a weight near his legs and the ambience is different. Ed frowns as he hears a fire crackling.

“You’re asleep.”

Ed jumps at the nearness of the voice, and startles further when he sees that Oswald is the weight next to his legs on the couch. A very different couch than the one he fell asleep on.

“You already know you’re asleep so hurry up with your observations and figure out where you are.”

Ed doesn’t need much time. They’re clearly back at the mansion in the sitting room upstairs. It’s late in the evening so the fire’s going. Tea on the table. Ed looks down and sees that he’s now wearing the brocade robe.

“Why am I here?”

“It’s your dream,” Oswald shrugs. He’s dressed in one of his customary suits and thankfully he’s not soaking the couch this time. “You’ll have to tell me.”

Ed tries to sit up. Oswald doesn’t budge so Ed has to awkwardly maneuver his legs out from behind him. He almost pitches forward into Oswald’s lap but he quickly grabs onto the armrest. By the time Ed’s long legs touch down on the expensive rug and mirrors the way Oswald’s sitting, Oswald wears an amused smile.

“That was fun.”

“You could’ve moved.”

“Yes, I could have,” Oswald giggles.

Ed sighs. His annoyance is trivial at best. It’s been some time since he’s seen Oswald giggle and tease in such a light-hearted way. Even if this is his mind, his usual encounters with Oswald contain a lot more bite. He reaches forward and grabs his tea. Ginger with honey. The first sip coats his tongue with the spicy aroma and soothes the long-gone bruising to his throat.

“We remember this night well.”

Ed looks up to find another version of himself standing near the armrest on the opposite end of the sofa. He looks…softer somehow. Innocent. Or at least as innocent as he could be with the life they’ve had. He’s dressed in one of the more neutral-colored suits from their time as Chief of Staff—perfectly tailored to their measurements.

“Don’t you, Ed?” His other self tilts his head with the question.

“Of course I remember it.” Ed places the cup and saucer back on the table. “It was a memorable evening.”

“You almost died for me,” Oswald speaks again, almost in a whisper. He reaches out, unlike that night, and ghosts his fingers across the skin of Ed’s throat. Ed can’t help his reflexive swallow, nor his instinctive desire to lean into Oswald’s warm touch.

“But he saved us,” the other Ed adds, taking the seat on Oswald’s left. “And we made him a promise.”

Oswald’s hand now cradles the back of his neck.

“Then he broke it.” Something heavy weighs on his chest. An inexplicable melancholy that’s been thrumming through his veins since Barbara revealed Oswald’s little secret. Ed sucks in a harsh breath, that lump present once again. His remembered promise tastes bitter on his tongue. “All in the name of _love_.”

The three of them sit in silence for a moment. The logs shift and pop in the hearth while the flames burn steadily. Oswald’s fingers lightly scratch at the junction where Ed’s hair meets the nape of his neck and Ed knows he’s allowing it.

“Which one of us do you mean, Edward?” Oswald asks softly.

“You know who I mean.” It comes out as more of a growl than Ed intended.

“Then why wait to kill me?” Oswald removes his hand and Ed hates that he misses the contact. “We know you’re perfectly capable of taking me on. You’re certainly strong enough. Why is the Riddler waiting?”

“Why are you?” Ed accuses.

“I have patience,” Oswald says. “My plan obviously involves some larger scheme so I’m set to waiting.”

Ed squints. Something in the way Oswald squirms under his look makes him believe there’s more to it. “…Or maybe you don’t want to?”

Oswald’s wide-eyed stare gives Ed all the answer he needs. His Cheshire grin slides into place as he stares down at Oswald with hard, beady eyes. “You haven’t killed me yet because you can’t. You think you love me and it’s paralyzed you. You never learn.” Ed leans in closer, Oswald staring back defiantly. “And I’ll take you down easily, just like last time.”

“And kill us again, too?”

Ed has just about had enough of the both of them. He sits back, fake smile sliding into place. “Is there something you’d like to say? Well it’s unnecessary. We already know what we want.”

“I don’t think we want to die again.”

“ _Oswald_ is going to be the one dying!” Ed snaps. “Not us. Not if we outsmart him.”

His other self still protests. “But there is no us! Not without him. Not completely.”

“We’ve managed before.”

“You deserve better than pills, Eddie.” Oswald boldly caresses the side of Ed’s face, stroking as if there is a hair out of place and he needs to smooth it back with the masses.

“Do I?” The question leaves him cold.

“Maybe,” the other Ed whispers.

“But he still hurt us.” Ed looks around Oswald to himself. It’s been awhile since he’s seen his reflection. Since he felt him.

“He did,” he nods sadly. “A lot of people hurt us.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

It’s an unusual comfort to be in harmony with himself. Even if the reason is less than desirable.

Ed had already determined long ago that he must be unlovable.

The first example of love for most children comes in the form of their parents. Unconditional. Or so they say. A mother is supposed to have a bond with her child like no other, and sometimes, in secret, Ed pretended that he and his mother did. In stolen moments they’d share, before his father would return home and demand all attention. Or want none at all. You could never be too certain.

But as Ed grew, he noticed a pattern. He became easier to blame. A scapegoat. If he and his mother had gone outside to play catch one day when it was nice or stayed inside and shared a treat, it became almost inevitable that he’d be punished for it later. Maybe not that day. Maybe not the next. But at some point, if his father’s attention was too much for his mother, those moments that Ed wanted to cherish now turned sour.

His peers were no different. Nor were his colleagues once he reached adulthood. Bruising hands may have been replaced with snickered words, but he felt them all the same.

He never understood.

He’d do everything—anything, to try to show his worth. He brought home perfect grades and tried to be a good son. He was the best in class and always offered help, but his net gain of friends had always been zero. He worked hours of overtime to help ease the loads of the detectives on their cases yet remained thankless the majority of the time.

Others did similar actions and were rewarded promptly.

So it must be him.

He’s had enough time to see that Miss Kringle would have ended up leaving him eventually. He’d been convenient for her, and despite his demonstration of how true his love had been, she’d rejected him completely and called him a monster.

Isabella hadn’t thought he was a monster. That was a welcome relief. But if he thinks too hard on it, he can still feel the sting of her slap on his cheek.

And Oswald.

Ed truly had thought that he had found someone. A kindred spirit with which he could share his life. Oswald understood him as no one had and had not only welcomed him, but had sought him out in friendship even after Ed had regrettably turned him away in his time of need.

Ed never wanted to lose him. He was the first person that showed him an overwhelming amount of kindness and compassion. Whose generosity sometimes bordered on the absurd. Ed couldn’t slip up. Ed liked Oswald a _lot_ and he knew Oswald liked him too, but the Penguin was temperamental and Ed wanted to be sure he couldn’t be replaced.

Yet even after he promised Oswald anything, he stabbed him in the back.

Is this what love will always be for someone like Ed?

Oswald remains uncharacteristically quiet in between the two of them. Ed wishes he would say something. Give him any sort of answer. For a time after Ed was released from Arkham, Oswald could always offer a comforting word when the nightmares became too much.

“What if it isn’t a lie?” His other half speaks up again. He gestures to Oswald in clarification. “What if his love isn’t a lie?”

“I don’t know what that would mean.”

The next morning, Ed finds himself at the stove with a pot of oatmeal. He’d woken early again and his stomach couldn’t be silenced this time. And since he was already making breakfast for himself, it wasn’t hard to add enough for two portions. He selects the honey from the cabinet and stirs some in. Had he let Oswald do this, it surely would have been too sweet. He kills the burner and searches for two bowls.

“Ed?”

Oswald stands at the edge of the kitchen, halfway hidden behind the corner of the wall. His armor’s on in the form of his suit jacket, but his hair still needs to be sorted. Ed turns back to his task and scoops the oatmeal into both bowls equally.

“Yes?”

“I—did you make two bowls?”

Curiosity or confusion brings Oswald into the kitchen fully as Ed sets their food down and takes his seat. As it hits Oswald that Ed did indeed prepare one for him, his face turns somber. He takes the seat across from Ed with a frown marring his features and a sad look in his eyes. A look that becomes instantly guarded.

“Why?”

“You made me eat yesterday.” Ed dips his spoon down and eats a mouthful. It’s perfect. But he usually didn’t make mistakes in the kitchen.

“I didn’t _make_ you ea—” Oswald cuts himself off of what sounded like the precursors of another argument. He subdues himself and quietly takes a bite of the oatmeal. Ed can’t help but watch for the noticeable twitch that determines Oswald’s opinion of it.

He likes it.

Pleased, Ed continues to eat his own bowl and is mindful of the silence. It’s less stifling than the previous morning. He doesn't know what that means. The dreams have shaken him and his emotions are even less discernable now—not that they were ever clear in the first place.

“I overreacted yesterday.”

Ed freezes mid-scoop and frantically tries to catch Oswald’s gaze. _What!?_

“I see now that you were truly just trying to help me.” Oswald takes another bite of his oatmeal. “But you should be able to see why I might have thought otherwise since you have vowed to kill me and everything.”

Ed bristles. Of course that’s how Oswald is going to play it. He grabs his bowl in one swift movement and migrates over to the couch.

“Oh, really, Edward?” Oswald flails around at the table, as he is prone to do. “That _is_ what you said!”

“That’s not why I moved,” Ed shoves another bite into his mouth. “And you know it.”

Oswald scoffs. “Well. I hardly see what you want me to do about this.”

Ed has to force the bite of oatmeal down before the rest of his emotions come bubbling up. He haphazardly throws his bowl to the table before pressing his fingers to his eyes. Why Oswald’s statement brought on this reaction, Ed isn’t sure, but his body is certainly reacting and it threatens to overtake him completely. He bites down on the inside of his cheek _hard_ and tries to ignore the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes.

A choked cry escapes his mouth and Ed loses.

“Why!?” Ed faces Oswald fully, no intention of backing down despite his own body betraying him from the start. “Why can’t you admit when you’ve done something wrong?”

Oswald, for whatever reason, looks completely appalled. A stupid look for when he needs time to think of an answer. “Were you not listening? Just now?”

“I was and I didn’t hear an actual apology.”

Oswald laughs, loud and cruel. “Because you’re clearly the king of apologies.”

“I don’t _have_ anything I need to apologize for!”

Oswald gapes at him for a moment before a jittery laugh escapes. “I’m—you don't have anything to apologize for? I have a bullet wound that disagrees!”

Ed’s standing though he doesn’t remember leaving the couch. “You just can’t admit that you messed up. That it’s your fault we’re like this!”

“You shot me, Ed! You tried to kill me! How are we forgetting this?” Oswald stands too, oatmeal forgotten.

“Unbelievable. I’d say you were stupid but we both know you’re just too prideful to open your own eyes.”

“You shot me and tossed me in a river!”

“You hurt me, Oswald!” Ed cries. “How can you claim to have loved me when you can’t even see that?” Ed hadn’t meant to mention love but it’s too late to take it back now.

Oswald rushes him. “You hurt me first! I gave you everything!”

“ _I_ gave you everything!” Ed bellows down at him, not giving an inch. “I gave everything for you! I almost died protecting you from Butch!”

“And I didn’t sell you out to Barbara, but apparently that’s not worth anything!”

“You’d already been caught, what else did you have to lose?”

“Uhhh—my life!”

“You were selfish and got what you deserved.”

“Yet I’m still standing here, _Ed_! I’m still the man I’ve always been because I don’t need someone else’s pretty words to tell me who I am!”

Ed’s control snaps. He yanks Oswald across the last few feet between them and smacks the knife away before Oswald could even flip it open. Oswald snarls and tries to force Ed’s hand off of his lapel.

Ed seizes his neck on instinct.

Both hands immediately fly to Ed’s other wrist. All Oswald can get out is an angry gurgle as Ed squeezes harder. Oswald scratches at his wrist for several moments, eyes wide and fearful, before he just…stops. He relaxes and holds Ed’s wrists. Gently. As if he means to caress.

Ed gasps, but he doesn’t let go. He watches the fight drain from Oswald as the color in his face begins to do the same. Ed starts shaking and he knows his cheeks are no longer dry. He meets Oswald’s eyes and is startled by their lack of fear. No, something else resides there now.

It scares Ed.

And his fear recalls the horror of Kristen going limp in his arms, the life passing from her eyes.

He’s never seen Oswald’s eyes go dark. They were always shining with something—even if it was the sadness and heartbreak from the pier or the contempt and loathing after being thrown into the birdcage next to Ed.

He can’t watch Oswald die again.

His hand flies away and Oswald chokes on his inhale. Ed takes a few breaths himself, overwhelmed. He brushes away a few stray tears with one hand. His other still closes around the smooth material of Oswald’s jacket. He can’t let him go. Not yet.

Oswald finally gains control of his breathing and clears his throat. What he’s trying to signal to Ed is a mystery. Ed is too focused on the fact that Oswald’s throat is still capable of breathing. He can already see the red marks from his hand forming along Oswald’s skin. He brings his fingers to them, soft and delicate. Afraid to break him as if he hadn’t been strangling him moments before.

Ed presses his fingers to Oswald’s neck and allows himself to breathe out a sigh of relief when he feels a pulse beating steadily underneath. It’s strong. Ed follows the rhythm with the tips of his fingers all the way down to its source. He places his open palm upon Oswald’s breast, mesmerized at how healthy his heart feels. How fast it’s moving. Residual adrenaline from its most recent brush with death.

It soothes him.

Curiously, even after a few minutes, the rhythm doesn’t slow as much as he anticipated it would.

“Ed?”

Oswald’s voice brings him back to the present. Confusion and worry are painted along the lines of his face. The color is coming back, too. Maybe even more so. Oswald’s cheeks are tinted with a pink that matches the tips of his ears. The intimacy of their position finally hits Ed and he absurdly feels as if he’s gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Pathetic.” Ed shoves him back, but it’s only forceful enough to make Oswald stumble a few times. Ed immediately sits back down and ignores the guilt of causing Oswald more strain to his leg than what is necessary. He stares down his oatmeal and refuses to look anywhere else. Eventually, Oswald shuffles away. He hears him retrieve his own food from the table before moving towards his room.

“Thank you for breakfast.”

It’s said so quietly, but Ed hears it.

The door closes and Ed sinks into the couch. All of his energy has vanished. The need to curl up is overwhelming so he finds himself lying back down onto his makeshift bed. The blanket is tangled up beneath him but he can’t find the energy to care as he presses his face into the pillow and tries to make the world disappear—even for a moment.

He’s still not sure which one of them he was calling pathetic.

Snow crunching underfoot is the obvious sign to Ed that this is a dream. Gotham’s summer is currently teasing its way in with its stifling heat and gross humidity. He doesn't look forward to that.

But here it’s bright from the afternoon sun reflecting off the snow-covered ground, the air is crisp without freezing you to the bone, and a faint flurry decorates the landscape with white specks.

Ed stands in the middle of a forest clearing holding a shovel.

“I assume you can guess what that’s for.”

It’s no surprise to see Oswald here. He’s on Ed’s left, all bundled up and shivering. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and Ed can’t help but stare as snowflakes spot his raven hair and get caught in his long eyelashes. Ed doesn't think he’s ever noticed how pretty he is.

A snort. “That’s a lie.”

Ed sees that his counterpart is back as well and standing in front of him. Before he can give a retort, an arm snakes around from behind and a feminine hand wraps around his neck. “You’ve always thought he was pretty.”

“Miss Kringle?”

“In the firelight.” The other Ed steps closer. “Or when he won the mayoral election, tears in his eyes.”

“When you both killed Mr. Leonard. He looks good in red.” Kristen shifts to his right, her hand still stroking his neck.

“What about the first day we met?” Oswald asks. “You thought about it when you were posing me your riddles.”

Ed swallows. “Okay,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “That’s enough.”

He can’t hide from any of them. Can’t hide from the questions that are already permanent thoughts in his brain.

“How did it feel when you had your hand around his neck?” Kristen asks.

Ed reaches up and removes her hand. He refuses to answer.

“Why are we here?” He glances between them, expectantly. When none of them move to answer, Ed shakes the shovel. “Hello? Am I burying you all again?”

His three phantoms—his three victims that changed him for good or ill—exchange a look amongst themselves.

Kristen speaks first. “Well, burying something is a possibility.”

“Or you could dig something up,” Oswald offers.

“What could I possibly dig up?”

“A pirate’s joy, a child’s misplaced toy, my worth you cannot buy. ‘X’ marks the spot, but I’m better found in the apple of one’s eye. What am I?”

Ed meets his own earnest eyes. A sigh leaves him along with the answer. “A treasure.”

“But only if you choose to dig it back up.” Oswald notes before he turns to walk away.

Kristen reaches for his cheek and sweetly turns his face to hers. “Love doesn't have to hurt.”

Ed’s stony expression stays in place as she too takes her leave until he’s the only one left in the clearing.

Ed tosses the shovel away. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” his other self answers. “He could be good for us. He has been good for us.”

“But so much has happened…”

“I know.”

“Love doesn't ever seem to be a strength.”

His reflection is silent.

The sound of running water rouses Ed from sleep. With the amount of naps he’s been taking, he might make up a slight portion of the sleep he’s missed over the years.

There’s a blanket draped over him. His blanket is still tangled up underneath him.

Oswald?

The man in question is at the sink and…washing dishes, from the looks of it.

Ed sits up and moves the blanket off to the side. He preens as best he can, fixing his clothes and smoothing his hair. He adjusts his glasses and is thankful for the umpteenth time that they’ve survived everything he’s gone through.

He stands. “Oswald.”

“Oh, Ed.” Oswald glances behind him before switching off the water and placing the second bowl on the drying rack. “You’re up.”

“I am.” His voice is still rough and a bit hoarse from his nap. He clears his throat.

“Here. Hold on a moment.”

Ed watches as Oswald timidly grabs a glass and fills it with water. He means to bring it over to him, but decides against crossing the line between the tile and the carpet and instead places it on the table.

“Please, sit.” Oswald gestures to Ed’s chair before he takes a seat himself.

Ed follows. The cool taste of the water washes any grime from his mouth and it also cues Ed in to how thirsty he actually is. He finishes the glass with ease and places it back on the table.

There’s a beat of silence. Ed considers thanking Oswald for the water. Maybe the blanket too, but Oswald beats him to it.

“I suppose,” he starts, eyes flitting around as if searching for the words he wants to say. “I suppose I did hurt you, Edward. Before.” Ed’s intake of breath is quiet, lips parted, and Oswald locks their gazes. “I wasn’t as good to you as I should have been. And…” Oswald swallows—literally, but perhaps also figuratively—before continuing with, “and I apologize for that.”

It’s not the best apology Ed has ever heard, but it’s the best apology he’s ever heard from Oswald uttered in complete sincerity. His admission of guilt lifts an incredible weight from Ed’s chest.

He hadn’t expected it. He’d wanted it, but Oswald had never been the type of man to admit fault, especially if there was someone else to point fingers at instead.

“I can’t kill you, Oswald,” Ed blurts.

Oswald’s eyebrows raise, momentarily thrown by the change in subject, before nodding his head slowly. “I admit I am hesitant to harm you as well.”

They sit, both avoiding each other’s eyes. Ed scratches idly at his empty glass and debates standing to refill it, but he can’t decide if that would make the situation better or worse. Oswald inspects his nails idly and Ed can see the tension he’s holding in his jaw. Their guards are down, their weakness exploitable. One well-placed ploy from the other could spell the end for them in a very permanent manner.

“So what happens now?” Ed asks.

Oswald fidgets, worrying his lip. “Well. I don’t want to kill you and you don’t want to kill me. So here we are, at the end of our chase, together. Who’s to say we can’t form a more permanent truce? One that doesn’t end with the other’s demise?” Oswald holds out his hand.

 _Truce_. Something about the word itches the tip of Ed’s tongue. It’s not enough—it’s certainly missing something. But Ed knows he doesn’t have the words to express himself in full yet and Oswald’s never been opposed to renegotiating terms, so Ed supposes he can table it for now.

His impulse prevents him from taking Oswald’s hand properly and instead holds it between both of his. He squeezes gently. No hint of malice or aggression. Only…affection. It’s been some time since he’s been allowed to touch Oswald with affection. He squeezes again and trails his thumb along the back of Oswald’s knuckle. Ed wants to prove that his hands can relearn how to hold Oswald without hurting him.

Oswald, sharp as ever, covers the back of Ed’s hand with his other one, squeezing in complete understanding of what Ed is trying to convey.

Oswald offers a tentative smile. “We’ll figure it out.”

Ed returns the sentiment in full.

The following afternoon, Oswald receives a message giving them the all clear. Tetch’s blood has been synthesized and most of the infected Gothamites have been cured with the antidote. Ed assumes the rest have been put down, one way or another.

He and Oswald…they’re okay.

After their talk the previous day, things have settled more or less. This feeling—Ed finds it akin to the numb clarity one feels after a cathartic cry.

Oswald doesn't want to kill him. Ed is still surprised by how good that feels.

And he’s certain he no longer wants to murder Oswald.

He isn’t sure what else that means for them.

It’s scary, but Ed isn’t unwilling to walk this new path with Oswald in whatever context that’ll be.

They’d played chess most of the time to keep occupied, but this time the conversation flowed better and they may have even laughed a few times. Nothing more than a few gentle breaths of air paired with a smile of course, but it’s a step. Ed wants to get back to a place where unrestrained, mad laughter can be shared wholeheartedly without fear. He hopes they can do that.

They hadn’t touched on the bigger issues. Both men are still raw from the past few days and they need time to process the situation in solitude before breaching those talks.

There’s time enough.

Oswald unlocks the two separate bolts on the door along with three other sets of more basic locks and Ed belatedly realizes he never actually checked the door to see if it was secured beyond basic hardware.

The sun is out. Not a cloud in sight. Unusual for Gotham but Ed prefers to dwell on the poetic nature of this fact.

He looks down to see Oswald softly smiling up at the sky. Ed can’t help but mirror it.

Oswald squares his shoulders. “Shall we?”

He’s about to move outside and a sense of panic immediately sets off within Ed.

“Wait,” Ed rushes, feeling that he’ll lose this moment if he lets Oswald step outside. That his courage will fail. That the narrative won’t feel complete unless he does this now because he won’t be brave enough later. He’s never brave enough. Rebuilding is already overwhelming him and Ed doesn't think he can start _this_ new beginning on his own. “I forgot something.”

Oswald visibly tenses beside him, yet still allows Ed to close the door. An exercise in trust. Ed recognizes and appreciates it.

Hoping Oswald will trust him once more, Ed ducks down and presses his lips to Oswald’s. Simple and chaste and he doesn’t test his luck by lingering for more than a few seconds.

“I wanted to try that,” Ed says, licking his lips to see if he can taste Oswald on them.

Wide-eyed and stuck in a daze, Oswald only nods. “Okay.”

How Oswald is able to render him breathless with one word, Ed will have fun trying to figure out. He smiles because it’s the only thing he can do. He doesn't have the words to express what he feels or what he wants between them. Not when his emotions currently twist and tangle across his heart in varying degrees of intensity. But he does know that he feels lighter for Oswald accepting his kiss and would like another one in the future, provided Oswald is amenable.

His task complete, Ed opens the door again.

But he waits. Watches to see if he and Oswald are on the same page. And if he understands.

But of course he does. Out of everyone Ed has ever come in contact with in his mostly unremarkable life, Oswald has been the _only_ person to see the real him. The whole of him. He knows him and Ed is beginning to see that being known might not be so inherently terrifying.

Of course he understands.

Hesitancy is logical. Ed certainly hasn’t made it easy for Oswald to believe his feelings are true. He’s probably second-guessing their kiss already. Ed intends to fix that.

“Ready?” Oswald asks.

Ed offers his arm. He doesn’t cross the clear space between their bodies.

Oswald does, and loops his arm through Ed’s as they step over the threshold.

The streets are empty and Ed wonders how far the car is or if Oswald has arranged for someone to pick them up. He wonders where they’ll go. Will Oswald just drop him off somewhere? After the incident with Tetch, Ed doubts Barbara would be particularly welcoming and Ed would prefer to stay away.

“I’m heading back to the mansion.”

Parting ways already. Unless Oswald allows him to follow. Ed’s not sure he could handle a rejection if he asked right now.

“If you’d like, I could give you a ride to a place of your choosing. Or…” Oswald worries his lip and his grip on Ed’s arm tightens slightly. “You are welcome to return with me. Your old room hasn’t been touched.”

“Thank you, Oswald.” The words tumble out unbidden. “I’d appreciate that.”

They set off down the sidewalk and Oswald tells Ed the man they’re meeting is just around the corner. Ed remembers the Fries’ case a few years ago, and that he had been labeled as deceased by the end of it. But the dead apparently don’t stay dead in Gotham and with Oswald on his arm, Ed isn’t as bothered by that fact as he probably should be.

They walk in amicable silence until Ed can’t resist asking, “So what was your plan anyway?”

Oswald stiffens, but doesn’t remove his hand from Ed’s arm. He tilts his head, considering. “I’ll tell you in time,” he finally settles on.

Ed nods. He can accept that. With all their uncertainties, it’ll be awhile until that hard-earned trust is solidified once more.

But they want to try, and Ed knows that has to count for something. So instead of digging for an answer to satisfy his insatiable curiosity, he’ll gratefully take this one for now. ‘In time’ works just as well for him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is really my first time writing any kind of heavy angst and I'm still kind of nervous about it so if you enjoyed it, please drop a kudos or comment to let me know! ^_^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] With Nothing But A Blindfold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273269) by [MidnightandDiamonds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightandDiamonds/pseuds/MidnightandDiamonds)




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